Klassen, standing at the peak of human power, had borne witness to the shifting tides of history. With his own eyes, he had seen a world where mankind cowered before common plagues, a time when mere infections brought nobles to their knees and peasants to their graves.
He had lived through the silent desperation of that era, watched its slow march evolve—until the day Absolute Order emerged. And with it, came the first sparks of mana, the rising breath of magic, and the descent of dungeons and classes.
He had endured, adapted, and overcome. Few could claim the clarity of perspective he possessed—one carved through centuries of battle, loss, and legacy.
And perhaps it was precisely that clarity which allowed him to notice the shift.
Knull and Khass stood before him, but something in their posture was off. Subtle. Slight. Yet clear to a man like Klassen. A stiffness in their frames, a tension beneath the surface. Something was wrong.
His gaze narrowed, sharpening like a blade honed by war and time. A faint smile touched his weathered face as he tilted his head, voice laced with gentle suspicion.
"Something wrong?" he asked, his tone casual, yet his presence anything but. "Did he cause trouble again?"
A ghost of a chuckle played at the edge of his lips. He knew his youngest grandson too well. That fiery little devil had always been a walking calamity—bold, impulsive, and unapologetically alive. Memories rose unbidden: Zarek, wide-eyed and grinning, nearly burning down an entire manor wing in a failed attempt to craft his own fireworks. Even now, Klassen could feel the tug of laughter trying to escape.
Still, there was an edge to his curiosity. One that demanded answers.
He needed to know what sort of devious thing that little guy came up with, he was sure if was definitely going to be something ingenious.
Khass and Knull exchanged glances. They both knew—once the old man's interest was piqued, there was no dodging the truth. Klassen wouldn't let them leave with vague excuses and half-hearted lies. Sooner or later, the truth would be pulled from their lips, whether gently or through sheer force of will.
Knull remained silent, after some time his expression turned mpassive. Cold, even.
It was Khass who finally broke the silence with a tired sigh. His voice, low and plain, barely masked the deep-rooted bitterness and disappointment coiled within it.
"I kicked that good-for-nothing son out of the family," he said, his words slicing cleanly through the tension.
"He's not my son anymore. Trash like that can't be."
His tone darkened. "Just like his mother—given that bitch's personality, I wouldn't be surprised—"
"Khass."
The single word cracked like thunder.
Klassen's voice didn't rise. He didn't need to. His glare was ice-cold, absolute in its authority. The temperature in the surroundings seemed to drop several degrees in an instant. Khass flinched, then quickly cut himself off, swallowing whatever venom was left in his throat.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
Zarek's mother—Alena Blue Dawn—had vanished when the boy turned five. One moment, she was present in the estate, bright-eyed and kind-voiced, and the next, she had disappeared as though swallowed by the wind. At first, the Silversword family launched a frantic search, sending riders and informants across the regions. But hope withered quickly.
And then the whispers began.
Rumors spread like wildfire—that Alena had been seen with another man shortly before her disappearance. That she had fled the city in shame or betrayal. That Zarek was never a true Silversword to begin with.
To outsiders, they were idle gossip. But within the walls of a prestigious family like theirs, such rumors were poison.
Khass had believed them. Or at least, he had allowed himself to. And in doing so, something inside him cracked. The love he once bore for Zarek turned bitter, twisted by suspicion and pride. His gaze shifted fully to his elder son. From that day on, Zarek was treated as a stain, a mistake best ignored.
Few outside the family ever knew the full truth.
Fewer still knew that Khass had once been married before. His first wife had died giving birth to Knull, leaving a hollow silence behind in her place. For years, that void remained, until Alena had come into his life and filled it with warmth once more.
And then, just as quickly, she was gone.
Klassen had never been one to rely solely on rumors. Not when family was involved. He launched his own investigation, and soon the truth began to unfold. The reports were clear. Alena had indeed been seen leaving the city, but she was alone. No companion. No strange man. Just her, walking with purpose, wrapped in a thick, hooded cloak.
And the origin of the rumors?
It was not coincidence. Nor accident. The one who had fed the flames of scandal—the very one who had whispered in ears and turned loyalty into doubt—was none other than Rubika, Alena's personal maid.
Betrayal from within.
She was immediately arrested. Stripped of rank. Thrown into the dungeons beneath the Silversword estate, where traitors and criminals wasted away in silence.
Even now, Klassen remembered her expression. Not fear. Not regret. But something worse—satisfaction, like she had completed a mission only she understood.
He hadn't uncovered her motives yet. But he would.
He always did, there was no way something that important could remain hidden, Klassen had a feeling, he was going to unconerythe truth soon.
Very soon.